


We Are the Children Who Play in the Streets in the Night Time

by RaphaelSantiago (softsocky)



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Swearing, and Heartbreak, and magic, angsty, but i wanted to give it a shot and here it is, i don't normally write things as obscure and elusive as this, its happy in the end, my attempt at weird ass war, there is, this is so weird and written at like 4am because i couldn't get the idea out of my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 20:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6486073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsocky/pseuds/RaphaelSantiago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When news broke out about the attack, they were worlds apart, and Raphael could no longer feel him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are the Children Who Play in the Streets in the Night Time

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so if you read the tags you'll know I've never written something like this before - established saphael alongside many other complicated things that I don't really explain that well. Its elusive and confusing and i know i'll regret posting this but thats ok, i hope you somewhat enjoy it anyway!

When news broke out about the attack, they were worlds apart – Raphael in the middle of New York City, in a business meeting with dark-suited men of the dark-suited breed; and Simon was lost in his dreamland of the in-between, somewhere kind of like Brooklyn, but a place much closer to the hell than there.

 

When news broke out of the attack, the institute wasn’t the first to know. It had been Lily who felt it first, who had been hit with the waves of nausea and discomfort, radiating them to Raphael in the ways she knew best, in the ways Raphael himself had taught her. When Raphael heard about the attack, the ghost of his pulse tampered in his chest, in his neck, in his wrist – he felt the gentle brush of lips inside his temple fade away, reminding him of the way his life had been sucked of him many years ago. Raphael thought of Simon, the only one of his own, the only one he could truly claim as his.

 

The other clan leaders did not feel the segregation of minds, though the way Raphael had tensed his body and hissed at the night sky, eyes disorientated, they, too, knew of the attack. Raphael’s Sire bond was in a malfunctioning state, causing his brain to thump against his skull, a migraine reminding him of his human days swamping his organs, his bitter bloodstream.

 

Raphael thought of Simon, but when news broke out about the attack, they were worlds apart, and Raphael could no longer feel him.

 

 

When the institute was informed of suspicious and alerting activity arising from the Hotel DuMort, they geared themselves up the way they would have done on any normal hunt. This, however, was no normal mission – in fact, they would soon realise there was nothing left for them to hunt.

 

 

The Hotel DuMort stood unsuspectingly amongst one of the industrial zones of Brooklyn, a view of the bridge visible from rooms on the western side of the decrepit construction, and economical projects could be seen from the east. The Hotel DuMort was falling to pieces, but tonight it fell for different reasons. When those men in dark suits with dark masks and darker intentions lifted themselves from their beds that morning, they had one accomplishment in mind: the destruction of the children who play in the streets in the night time.

 

The Dark-Suited Breed were raised to kill in cold blood, to drink the laughter up from the people who poured it, to divide the Shadow and Down World the way oceans divided nations. Their teeth could cut through mental power like a scalpel through skin, and their mouths could swallow galaxies whole if they dare tried. The Dark-Suited Breed were of the worst kind, born from vermin and raised in dirt, faces clean yet souls not-so quite. They were of the worst kind, something the Shadowhunters refused to acknowledge – they were hunters of shadows who longer slaughtered those who should be slain. Rather, they killed for joy and they killed for pleasure.

 

Despite the Shadow World proudly ignoring them whatever the cost, history did not. Before Raphael had left the Hotel DuMort to meet with ex-members of the Dark-Suited Breed, he had taken to reminding the clan the rhyme that a founding vampire had written hundreds of years prior:

 

“ _Once were Shadowhunters, now were rogue – Once were heroes, now are foes.”_

 

 

When Raphael met the men and the other clan leaders in the alleyway that evening, he knew something was not quite right. He just had not suspected it would end quite like this.

 

 

Jace and Alec had arrived to the Hotel before Raphael returned. Isabelle and Clary followed, and soon Magnus had arrived at the demand of Alec. They watched the Hotel in disbelief. Windows were shattered, blown in as though a great storm had taken its own attack on the construction of stone and iron. The front door no longer guarded entrance to the vampiric household, rather, a great canyon divided the hotel for all too see. Sunlight poured in, despite the night sky overhead, as though magic itself was forcing daylight to destroy the night children.

 

Magnus was biting his lip with a worry Alec had yet to ever see, different to the kind he had seen when he had nearly died. This was more the kind of worry one would wear when they realised an entire race of peoples was about to be extracted from the planet. From what they could all see, there were no vampires in the sun, but the entirety of the hotel was exposed like a newborn, its flesh naked and its architecture broken like bones. Its structure was no longer there; its purpose no longer fitting.

 

Raphael returned then, having run there. He saw the circle of sunlight surrounding his hotel, the place where his clan was. Raphael had yet to tell Simon’s friends, but inside the hotel slept not only his clan, but also his love, his _Simon_. Simon had told him just that morning that he was ready to tell his friends of their love affair, that he was no longer fearful of their opinions of him. Raphael had barely time to smile at him before their lips had met in one of their sweetest morning, _evening_ , embraces. Raphael wished he could feel their touch lingering, that the kiss of Simon’s mind would be inside his again, so Raphael could feel where he was, if he was alive.

 

Raphael was fearful, however, for the first time in a long time – he couldn’t feel Simon, he couldn’t find Lily in his thoughts, he did not know where Elliot was. All connections were lost, and when Raphael met eyes with Clary Fray, he had never felt so lost in his side of their world. “ _Where’s Simon?_ ”

 

His whisper was as broken as the hotel was, and Raphael could see from the notch in Jace’s brow that there was going to be no answer – they did not know, or rather they did not, but did not wish to speak the words on the tips of their tongues.

 

Simon couldn’t be dead. The clan couldn’t be dead. _They couldn’t be dead._

 

Raphael turned to Magnus, who regarded Raphael in a way that made him feel colder than ever. “Magnus…it’s them, they did this.”

 

Magnus trained his eyes to the asphalt beneath his black boots momentarily, before he looked at Alec, looked at the love he didn’t dream to lose, then back at Raphael, who it seemed had just lost his. “I will have to call all the Warlocks I know.” A hesitation heavy as the burden on Raphael’s shoulders sat amongst them. “I am not strong enough to do this alone, Raphael.”

 

Clary stared between Raphael and Magnus, uncertain, deflated, _curious._ She watched the way Raphael was tugging at his hair, pulling apart the hair gel, talking to himself in a low voice she could not capture with her senses, staring at the ground as he paced back and forth. As Magnus spoke on the phone, he let out an almighty growl, yelling at what he thought to be the heavens when he was a Christian human boy, but what he now probably thought was a place he’d never get a chance to see. Clary felt a rock in her chest that she knew was the absence of Simon; she felt the missing piece drift further and further away from her as the hair on the back of her neck rose.

 

Magnus turned back to them, “they’re coming. They’ll be twenty minutes, Raphael.”

 

For the amount of times Raphael had asked for silence from Simon, it was now that he no longer accept it. “How could they do this now, Magnus? I thought the were defeated. I didn’t think there were any of them left.”

 

Magnus shook his head, “I did too, Raphael, but I suppose there was always a part of me that knew they would be back. Their hate was strong enough to survive just about anything.”

 

Clary stepped forward, “hold on. Who are you talking about? Who’s ‘they’?”

 

Both Magnus and Raphael didn’t reply to her, but looked at Jace instead. Clary didn’t know what a Dark-Suited Breed was, but from the expressions of all the ones she loved around her, she knew they were not good. Clary hoped Simon would be with her again soon.

 

 

When the Warlocks arrived, Magnus had removed his overcoat, exposing a morose black undergarment. The rest of the Warlocks looked quite fitting amongst the rest of atmosphere – their clothes were as dark the night sky above them, and as cold and lifeless and the hotel in front of them. There were no words spoken, but all the warlocks glanced at each other, all wearing devastation like an art form, like it pained them the way it pained Raphael.

 

With their hands connected, they were able to rumble the ground in the way an earthquake does, lifting the sun away from the hotel, and back to the never land, letting night time reign in its former glory. They stumbled back when a shatter rang out, the sound of windows smashing, but this time, it was as though the word was rewinding – the hotel itself re-winded, but nothing around them changed. Windows were repaired, the shards of glass gluing together back in their panes, the door reattaching to the frame.

 

With the sun gone, and the hotel no longer broken, it looked as though nothing had ever happened – but when the Warlocks began to grunt and yelp, the agony on their faces was impossible to miss. Their hands separated, and they were panting in ways Raphael had never seen, and for a moment he missed the feeling of his lungs filling naturally.

 

Magnus stared at him fearfully, gasping out, “it’s the virus, Raph – the virus.”

Clary had never seen Raphael so frozen. She had seen him silent, and still, unmoving like a statue – but this was different. This was like he had never actually lived before, like he was not even a vampire, but rather a painting, soulless and heartless in all literal forms. Raphael began to thaw, however, becoming a living painting as beautiful as he was heartbroken.

 

“Can you cure them?”

 

Magnus looked down the line of Warlocks he had known for centuries, each of them as determined as each other. Magnus turned back to Raphael, nodded, and raised his hands.

 

 

Clary had seen magic before, and she had seen Magnus’ magic before, too, but never had she seen a spectacle quite like this: twenty Warlocks with raised hands, magic pouring from them in unison, building a somewhat magnifying force field around the hotel. Black powder, as fine as sand, was sucked from the cracks in the hotels foundations, like a backwards plug, instead of draining, it filled the night sky and was warped away by something Clary herself couldn’t quite describe, even given her illustrative perception.

 

When the last of the dark powder had been taken away, all twenty Warlocks fell to the ground in a synchronisation that would have been regarded fearfully beautiful in different circumstances. Moments passed, and silence once again lingered around them, but then—

 

The front door of the hotel smashed against its hinges, Lily stepping out first, clothes ragged and barefoot, hair a mess and lipstick smudged. She saw Raphael, the exhausted warlocks, and the Shadowhunters, before she bowed before them all. What followed her was Raphael’s healthy clan, the vampiric virus that the Dark-Suited Breed had been threatening their world with since the dawning of time now sucked from their bodies.

 

Raphael felt him before he saw him. A tugging at the front and sides of his mind, a kiss of Simon against the insides of his temples. When Simon yanked himself through the crowd of exhausted and vexed vampires, his eyes sought out Raphael. Raphael sought out Simon, too, and when their hands reached each other, so did their lips, and finally their worlds collided once more.

 

They kissed passionately – a passion Raphael thought he had lost for the eternity he was sworn to live out. Raphael’s hands gripped Simon’s hips in a death-vice, Simon’s in Raphael’s messy hair, tugging and gasping when Raphael bit into the tender flesh of his neck. The Shadowhunters turned to give them privacy, knowing that feeding from the neck was a sign of a lovers-share, something humans would regard as close to intimate sex as anything else. Clary didn’t turn straight away though, instead she met Simon’s hazy eyes over Raphael’s shoulder and head, giving him a thumbs up the way she used to when he was a human in a club with her, and a cute guy would speak to him. She turned, them, joining the others at staring at the Brooklyn Bridge, admiring its beauty the way Raphael admired Simon’s.

 

 

Later, as the vampires swarmed the inside of the Hotel, the shadowhunters gone back to care for the Warlocks at the infirmary, Raphael spoke to his clan the way any great king would after a tragedy such as this. “We are the children who play in the streets in the night time, and forever we shall play! But Children, we shall not stay anymore!” Anticipation. “Tomorrow, we are hunters!”

 

When news broke out about the attack, they were worlds apart. When these worlds collided again, there was an almighty cheer, and lost they were not. Raphael took Simon’s hand, and Simon took Raphael’s – together they stood before the world they both knew and wanted to know, a family so connected, history itself could not take it down.

 

 

(A week later, when the Idris newspapers broadcasted viral images of headless ex-shadowhunters lining the fences of the clave member’s houses, they said it was the work of both angels and demons, and that no investigations would be pursued for the individuals responsible. They claimed that the Dark-Suited Breed would die out again like it had centuries ago, and that maybe one day it would return, but that when that time came, the night children would be more prepared than any of us, should their newest recently-married duo-clan leaders, one Raphael and Simon Santiago-Lewis, still be regarded as sovereignty to their kind.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very kindly for reading as always! xx


End file.
